Astronomical Calculations
by faramirs
Summary: -human!Doctor and nurse!Clara AU- "Graves were places that took an infinite amount of time he never had." John Smith was a broken man with broken limbs when he met Clara, the girl who was impossibly annoying and had all the time in the world.
1. Chapter 1: He Hated Many Things

**Chapter 1- He Hated Many Things**

"And stitch by stitch, I fall apart

If brokenness is a work of art

I must be my own masterpiece."

-Neptune, Sleeping at Last

John Smith was born to be a doctor. He knew it with ever beat of his heart, every breath he took. He felt it with every page he flipped, every bandage he wrapped around ketchup-bleeding dummies. From the moment he came into the world screaming and clawing, as all newborns are apt to do, all he heard was doctor, doctor, doctor. It drove him wild with ambition. He had to follow the voice in his head, the tingling in his fingertips. He was insane in a careful, controlled, kind manner. He was insane with his want – _need_ \- to heal. That was the difference. The difference between him and the people he came from.

His people were described as a noble, regal race of humans, but really, they were just bloodthirsty and they craved power. They wanted to conquer, to have all the other humans of Earth subject to their strength. They would beat down, and they would crush anyone who stood in their paths. John was left behind to patch the broken humans up. Rub alcohol on their gashes, set their broken arms, kiss the children's 'owies' better. John was a doctor, not a warrior. He was not meant for death, he was meant for life. The chanting in his head told him so.

The itch in his fingertips to sew up wounds, to carefully remove tumors, to fiddle with the circuits in the brain never failed him. John was a medical prodigy. His professors said they never had a student so brilliant, so passionate. Crazy John Smith, shelled up in a tiny blue shed that somehow managed to store every textbook and scalpel that he owned. This student was beyond clever. He was something akin to the next Albert Einstein. Perhaps he wasn't gifted in physics nearly as much as biology, but it was something he did in his spare time. They failed to realise that he was driven mad by the continuous chanting in his head, _doctor, doctor, doctor._ The madness that made him better. The madness that drove him to be great, that inspired him to heal. They all said that John Smith had a gleaming future ahead of him. The greatest man alive. He was crazy, but he was kind and caring and clever and everything you could ever want in a human being.

Then the war hit Gallifrey. _The war hit Gallifrey._ His country. In the middle of a war. There had been rumblings of a horrific, bloody war in Arcadia and Britain, but they never thought it would ever even touch Gallifrey. They were far too strong for that. They thought UNIT would be able to hold it off; they were the planet's greatest militia and they were allied with the Gallifreyan warriors. They thought the military would be able to hold off these Daleks, almost indestructible creatures that seemed so _ridiculous,_ but they had no mercy, no emotion, and no morals. Gallifrey had the greatest weapons tech in the world, bombs disguised as cookies, pistols hidden in flashlights, tools for everything in the form of a screwdriver.

The Daleks were all grown in labs with crazy scientists wanting to create the perfect warrior. John, wanting to read up on these beasts, studied the propaganda (they called it _literature,_ for God's sake) created by Davrosians. _"We have designed the perfect warrior, devoid of emotion. They are never fearful, never affected by emotions, filled with the strongest kind of hatred: the desire to kill. They are the greatest warrior this planet has ever seen. They are the Daleks. Exterminate!"_ The anger in the depths of his heart grew.

Naturally, the Davrosians hated all studies of life. They hated doctors and nurses and biologists, so they specifically hunted healers down. They were afraid of people who could practically bring dead men back to life. There was an entire army of Daleks whose duty was to seek and destroy all of those who had medical or biological training. So John Smith ran. He ran away from the Daleks and the burning cities of Gallifrey. He watched his cities have bomb after bomb dropped on them, heard the terrified screams of women and children and still, he ran and he ran. He watched all of the Gallifreyans being brutally murdered and his feet did not falter. He thought he was brave, but he lied. Having an army hot on your trail was far more terrifying than a child bleeding out, because he could do something about it. You couldn't stop an army without another army on your side. It was his greatest mistake. John suddenly wasn't caring and kind and clever. He couldn't ever imagine anyone ever wanting him again. He abandoned his little sisters, who begged him as he shut the door, to stay with them and keep them safe. Why did he ever run away from them? He watched a spray of bullets ram themselves into his mother's chest and didn't even say goodbye to her dead body. His father, he assumed, died in the fires that engulfed Gallifreya for forty days and nights.

As John ran, with the screams echoing inside his head, as he ran from his dead parents and crying sisters and burning city, John found friends. People running too, even if they didn't know it. Everyone runs from something, be it death or a final exam or angry parents. But even brilliant, lunatic doctors need a hand to hold, running along the face of the earth. Even humans who have made, quite possibly, the worst mistakes deserve someone to be by their side.

The first was Rose. He found her after a cleverly disguised drone blew up her job in London. (John personally thought that mannequins disguised as bombs in a department store was genius. But he never told Rose that. She'd probably smack him.) He though that she was just an ordinary girl. Just a nineteen year old shop girl. But as he travelled with her, he discovered how intricate and beautiful and strong and brilliant Rose Tyler was. Rose Tyler was beautiful. She was kind and compassionate, everything he could never be, and everything he once was. He supposed he fell in love with her. Slowly first, just slowly, he didn't even know it, but then quickly and all at once. He fell in love with her laugh, he fell in love with her ability to know exactly what to say, to do exactly what he couldn't do. He was hollow. He ran away from his screaming people. Rose filled him, with all her light; her voice drowned out the voices in his head. " _You are evil, you are a coward, you don't deserve anything. You are just as bad as any Gallifreyan, any cowardly, brutal Gallifreyan."_

Rose was his sanity. And he fell in love with her, but could never find the words to tell her how much he cherished her. How do you tell the girl who made you whole again how much you love her?

Rose left one day, without any warning. Her family fled Britain because of the Dalek attacks, and Rose couldn't leave them behind, however much she wanted to stay with John. John tried calling her again and again, trying to find a stable cell connection. Everyday, he called, only to be met by static. He hated how much he cried during those months, curling himself up with Rose's favourite sweater and crying until his eyes ran dry. He could never force himself to look in the mirror because he was afraid of the reflection he might see staring back at him. He hated how sad he felt and how the screams returned but now all he could hear was Rose screaming. He plugged his ears and screamed like a toddler trying to avoid her mother's punishment, but nothing could ever drown out what Rose left with him. He just needed her voice.

After nearly six months of frantic and daily— sometimes hourly— phone calls, his shout for Rose made it through.

" _Hello?"_

 _"Rose?"_

 _"John?"_

 _"It's me, Rose Tyler."_

Rose cried. He heard her desperate sobbing on the other side of the line and his heart broke just a little more. He bit his lip.

" _Rose, please don't cry."_

She hesitated, her hiccups reaching his ears. Rose always hiccupped when she cried, and John thought it quite endearing, albeit a tad bit unsanitary. He thought of how much she cared, that she would cry hard enough to have her lungs contract in such a manner.

 _"It's really you?"_

 _"It's really me."_

His voice was impossibly gentle, trying so hard to help Rose feel better. He wasn't clever about it this time, no. However emotionally unattached John was, he always knew when Rose was sad. It was a strange gift he had, and one that had served him well. (Females were complicated.)

She coughed.

" _I love you."_

He froze. Rose loved him? _Rose loved him?_ His jaw gaped like a fish out of water and sat there for several moments, each feeling like an eternity. Rose loved him?

" _John? Are you still there? Hello?"_

He listened to her voice for just a little bit more, soaking up every last word. He needed to keep her in his memory forever. He thought, that maybe, he could listen to Rose reciting the telephone book for hours on end, if only it meant that he could keep her voice with him forever.

 _"Rose."_

 _"Oh, thank god, I thought we had lost connection again."_

 _"I called you every day, you know."_

 _"John—"_

 _"Every day, I wanted; I wanted to talk to you, Rose. I just… I needed to hear your voice."_

He could hear Rose crying and he thought of all the times when she thought he was dead, when she saw so many people killed and she and he were the only ones left. He thought of how her makeup would run down her face and how she would shakily inhale oxygen that seemed far too sparse. He thought how she'd always bury her face in his chest, the ooze running from her nose. He would do it all again. He would clean every bit of snot out of his suit, wipe her running mascara, dry her red and tired eyes. Just to have his Rose. He would take her highs, when she was smiling and laughing that beautiful laugh of hers, and he would take her lows, when she was cold and distant, probably because of something stupid he said. He thought of all the words he needed to say to this girl, the girl he had fallen in love with

" _And if it's my last chance to say it… Rose Tyler, I—"_

And then the connection cut.

He thought that he was broken before, but this time, he couldn't put a witty grin onto his face. He couldn't laugh or smile, or just be clever. John was scared. He was scared out of his wits. This was the one time he could not fix himself. He couldn't be his own doctor.

John though, somewhat twistedly, that if he went by something else, he could forget all the hurt that he associated with himself. Maybe if he became the constant chant in his head, he would truly be able to be a doctor. Maybe if other people saw him as a doctor, that's what he would be.

Maybe it hurt too much to be called John by someone who wasn't Rose. Maybe his heart broke every time he saw a blushing boy hand a beautiful girl a particular thorny flower to an equally pink girl. John was extraordinarily good at lying to himself.

He saw Rose everywhere, in his dreams, smiling, screaming, dying, just the usual. Rose Tyler was the thorn in his side, digging in with every fragile beat of his broken heart.

Maybe changing his name would help him run away from Rose.

During most of the weeks after his phone call with Rose, he wandered around London, sometimes going into her old flat and making tea using whatever concoction Jackie (her mum) left behind. (It wasn't very much, nor was it very good.) He probably scared the neighbours up to high heaven when he'd just appear at Rose's front door, but like he'd ever give a damn. He slept for over thirteen hours a day, but he still felt exhausted. He didn't even know where he fell asleep; he just knew that he always woke up somewhere cold and lonely. He was always cold and lonely.

He woke up in the hospital one day with a pretty girl standing over him.

Tried to put his goofy grin on to hide his sad eyes.

 _"Hello! I'm the Doctor!"_

The girl looked confused, her brow wrinkled and she said,

" _Doctor? Doctor Who?"_

His grin got a little wider.

 _"Oh, just the Doctor."_

Her name was Martha Jones. She was studying to be a doctor as well, but she was trying to work her way up to the front lines, where the Daleks were. Everyone was told that they'd get more money for being upfront, but was money worth your life? She wanted to fight and be brave, though. He could only admire her from afar. Martha Jones was a star, shining distantly. So brilliant and clever. She wasn't like Rose at all.

In a way, Martha was a way to cope with his grief. She was destined for things so great, destined to save the world. The Doctor wanted to be like her, so he asked her to wander with him. He was lonely, and although he had no energy, Martha was a burning supernova, refreshing him and bringing him life. If Rose was his lover, Martha was his rebound, but not in a lover kind of way. Martha Jones was his coping method, to distract himself from Rose. In hindsight, the Doctor realised that he was a bloody awful friend.

She told him that she fell in love with him. It was slightly shocking, to say in the least, for the Doctor.

" _I always used to look up to you,"_ she told him, _"I thought that I could never be my own person, that I was tied to you. You're so brilliant and clever, and I never thought I could ever be, somehow equal to you. But I'm my own hero, Doctor. I'm in love with you. But you— you're so in love with Rose, it's like you don't see me. I'm sorry, Doctor. I had the time of my life with you."_

And then she walked away.

He was a hero?

She just left him standing in the street, sort of dazed. Rose would never have done that. Rose would tell him what was wrong, not just _leave_ because she couldn't deal with unrequited love. Martha was brilliant. The Doctor told her that nearly every day. He thought he knew how much he valued her.

What Martha Jones didn't know was that Rose invaded his thoughts each and every in each and every one of his waking moments. How could he ever get over the girl who stole his heart? Who could ever let go a girl so brave and kind and perfect in every single way? Nobody could ever just give up on loving a girl who was the most important part in their life for nearly 3 years.

He hated to admit it, but the Doctor cried himself to asleep on the nights when nightmares didn't inhabit his waking hours. Everyone he ever had, everyone he ever loved even in the slightest, they always left him. Be it by choice or the war, they left. He hated the loneliness of war; he hated how many people it stole. He hated many things, many, many things, but most of all, he hated himself. He hated how he held onto everything with all he had, but it somehow managed to slip from his grasp. Was he just so awful that none of his friends could ever manage to stay with him?

First his parents and little sisters. Dead. Rose. Lost and probably dead. Martha, because he couldn't get over Rose.

" _I am awful,"_ he thought.

He believed it with every fibre of his being.

He told himself to stop crying.

She found him, the next girl. He was wandering, like always, and she (she always said that it was his fault) bumped into him. Somehow, the quiet, intelligent Doctor took a liking to Donna, a witty, sassy, and impossibly kind woman. She became his best friend. They ran together, the Doctor dragging her along, hoping that she wouldn't get left behind like all the others. Donna Noble, the most important woman in the universe. She kept up remarkably well with the running Doctor, she was at his side always. She let him cry, held his hand tight, she wrapped him incredibly kind hugs, even though they both insisted that they would never, ever be a couple. She had an impossible ability to just be there, to smile with him, laugh with him, tease him. She never pushed him to say anything when his grief drowned him, just gave him a lighthouse shining above the waves.

He caught Rose, once. They ran and ran and collided like an asteroid to the moon, passionate and explosive. He took the pain and smiled. Rose was here, she was with him, she was alive. He hadn't killed her. Never had he felt the swelling of his heart so acutely. He would take this pain every day of his life if he could. The love he still held for her was strong and bright and beautiful. They kissed before she left again. Gently and fiercely, content and desperate. It was their first kiss. They didn't know the next time they would meet, so they kissed like the world was ending. In a way, it was.

She was torn away again, but the Doctor was okay. He had Donna by his side and the warm hand of a best friend twined in his. He was alive, still a bit hurt, but okay and breathing. He had a best friend who was going to stay with him forever. Him and Donna against the world.

They were caught in the crossfire one day, between the Daleks and Gallifreyans. Of course, the Doctor told Donna everything about the Daleks, everything he had ever read, everything he had ever witnessed. That's what best friends did. She knew too much. Casually, she was hit by an acid attack. That's what the Gallifreyans told him. Parts of her brain failed to function after that and her entire memory of the Doctor was erased. The Doctor thought that losing everyone near to him was awful, but this was a new and different kind of poison. To have your best friend look you directly in the eye and politely ask your name was heartbreak. His heart hurt so fiercely that it almost killed him. There were many hurts that John Smith could heal, but the man born to be the Doctor, could not cure the pain eating at him slowly. The pain that infected his heart like blight.

His grief changed him, for better or for worse, no one will ever know. He hid his torment under a layer of silliness and cleverness. The invincible Doctor. He was clever and a tiny bit ridiculous, fairly socially inept and no sense of time whatsoever.

He met a little girl named Amelia, alone in a strange and frightening house. She wasn't afraid though, Amelia Pond was never afraid. The Doctor left for a while. Graves were places that took an infinite amount of time that he never had. He looked at the moon a lot, probably thinking philosophical thoughts. (Clearly, he was meant for philosophy.) Along the way, he got a little lost. He came back to a much older Amelia- Amy, now –who, he discovered, could hold a grudge for a very long time. The beautiful, leggy, ginger. He always wished he was ginger. She kissed him after their first _entirely platonic_ date, and then he flailed his arms around a lot. Good job, Doctor. (More like, whatonearthamypondwhatareyoudoingwhyamibeingkissed)

Then along came Rory, bubbley vesty, awkward Rory. He was her boyfriend, then her fiancé, then her husband. That was usually how things went. Any man who wanted to tackle the feisty Amy Pond was extraordinarily brave. Brave enough for a Roman centurion. (One day, upon the Doctor's suggestion, they wrestled Rory into armour and a cape. He was magnificent.)They were so happy. And in turn, it made the Doctor happy. His Ponds (although Rory always insisted that it was Williams) never failed to bring a smile to his sad eyes. For the first while in a long while, the Doctor was happy. They were seared onto his heart, and like a brand on the back of a cow, nothing could ever take them away. They were a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds that seemed to follow him around like an overly attached puppy.

They visited war-torn New York, which was strangely and brokenly beautiful. Amy always wanted to visit, and Rory lived by the motto 'happy wife, happy life,' so he came too. They drank overpriced (cold) coffee (because they bought it from somewhere else, bad idea Doctor), read newspapers, and were content. They laughed nearly hysterically; Amy wore the Doctor's Harry Potter-ish glasses, and Amy and Rory kissed. Probably quite a lot. (The Doctor refused to watch them, it was far too awkward to watch them exchanging saliva.)

Amy, Rory, and the Doctor failed to notice the warnings. The city was empty. The city that never slept was dead. Completely silent. They neglected the signs at the borders of the city. _Angels. Beware._ Drawn by frantic hands with whatever they could find. Sharpie, mud, blood. They were too blissful, too ignorant.

It was night, the Doctor blinked, and Rory was gone. Nobody ever saw the Angels, the most terrifying of all the soldiers on the Dalek side. They moved faster than anyone could ever imagine, destroying cities in a matter on hours. Nobody knew where their victims went. No blood, no bodies. They disappeared. Blink and they'd be gone. Entire neighbourhoods wiped, all the apartment blocks desolate. Rory was gone. Amy loved that man, that brave, brave man, with all her heart, so she let herself be taken too. And like always, the Doctor ran. He told himself that he was running to things, but really, he was just running away.

The Doctor was left alone again.

He was a man who loved enough for two hearts, giving both of them to everyone he ran away with. He didn't want to heal anymore. They'd all just die anyways. For once, _doctor, doctor, doctor_ stopped. It left him cold. No drive, no purpose, no ambition.

The Doctor went back to just John Smith. Just John. Not a medical prodigy. Not a lonely man. Just John.

And then he joined the army. It was probably suicide, but he didn't care.

Killing people was easier than fixing them.

 **well, tada! first chapter of Astronomical Calculations is up! feedback on my first relatively serious fic would be entirely appreciated and i'd probably love you forever.**


	2. Chapter 2: Ring Around the Rosy

**Chapter 2- Ring Around the Rosy**

 **Trigger Warning: This chapter is quite violent and involves a lot of death and blood. If this bothers you, I would recommend not reading this. PM me if you would like to know what happened without reading it. (This chapter is mostly character development on The Doctor's behalf, no real plot significance.)**

"It's a scary world out there,

Ruffians, thugs, poison ivy, quicksand

The Plague!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

-Mother Knows Best, Tangled

John held his pistol to the man's head. There was no shaking in his hand, his eyes were resolute. This man deserved to die. He killed so many innocent Gallifreyans. He was on the side of evil. He was so wrong. So John held the gun to his head with a steady heart and no fear in his veins.

"You," John whispered, "you have killed my friends. You have killed innocent people. And I swear, this time— this time you are going to die for this. You are going to die. I swear upon everyone's graves, Dalek or Gallifreyan, that I refuse to let you live."

His voice shook with anger, the muscles in his face and neck taut, his hand clenched. He fought for control of the sheer rage boiling in the pit of his stomach.

The man, whose appearance could only be described as rodent-like, said without hesitation,

"Then how would you be any different from me?"

John stared. How dare he imply that he could ever be a Dalek? The Daleks took his best friends, they took his family, they took everything he ever held dear.

"I am not you. I WILL NEVER BE A DALEK."

 _Stay in control._

John closed his eyes and the screams of children, children he had counted day in and day out, echoed in his head. The flames burned on his eyelids. Suddenly, he was there again, his face scratched, blood oozing into his eyes. He assumed it was right at his hairline; that's where it hurt the most. His vision was clouded with red, whether with blood or rage, he didn't know, but he was still able to see woman collapsing in the streets of Gallifreya, blood blossoming from their chests and temples. Their blood dyed the stone streets, running like rivers. In an odd, gory kind of sense, their blood was like roses, beautiful and strong. Smoke filled his nostrils, and he began to gag. He hadn't eaten anything beyond half a banana and a jammy dodger in days; all he could do was retch. The phlegm that flew into his dirty hand (shame on him, he knew. Coughing into hands was very germy and unsanitary) was laced with red. His mind flew along the medical files in his brain. Pulmonary edema? No, his lips weren't blue, nor was he gasping for breath. He ruled out pneumonia and all other diseases involving shortness of breath. It was probably just irritation from all the smoke in the dry summer air. It was interesting, he found, because Gallifreyan summers were usually very muggy. The war must have interfered with the weather patterns. He had been running recently (obviously) and the excess inhalation of the smoke would have irritated his airways. John didn't realise that he put his glasses on, a strange habit he had whenever he was thinking about something. His little sisters always told him that it made him look smart, or that he put them on to make himself look smart. His last physical connections to Laine and Olivia. He still heard their terrified screams, and their begging of the Daleks to please, _please,_ have mercy, making one conglomeration of fear bounding through his ear drums. He took his glasses off and placed them in his breast pocket. He needed to stay focussed. Being distracted would mean almost certain death.

The Daleks continued their march through the collapsing flats, shooting at the feeble resistance before them. The resistance, armed with nothing but scratched rifles and bloody knuckles gave a scream. A shout of abandon, of courage and fear. They ran straight toward the Daleks and they all fell down.

 _Ring around the rosy_

 _Pocket full of posies_

 _Ashes, ashes_

 _We all fall down._

When John turned away from his dead, his foot struck something that would burn itself into his brain for as long as he could possibly live. He looked down and saw the body of a little girl, no more than eight. Her skull was smashed into the concrete sidewalk, her hair matted with slowly drying blood. There seemed to be a large amount of red coming from underneath her head, thick and bright and _beautiful._ Her limbs were bent at wrong angles, dislocations and fractures. There were probably a few greenstick fractures that he couldn't see, but right now, he needed to set the compound fractures. John found himself bending down to snap the bones back into place, to tell the girl that it was going to be okay, that he'd patch her up and she'd be as fit as a fiddle in no time. Surprisingly, she was not screaming, just silent. People often went into shock after bad injuries. *trauma after injuries*

He stretched for the girl's forehead to brush her tangled bangs back, as a way to comfort her, but instead felt shattered bone and the gelatinous substance of brain in a horrific mix between his fingers. He drew his hand back and it was soaked in blood and sticky pieces of shrapnel. John stared at his hand, turning it back and forth. There was blood on his hand? He crouched there, beside the girl, for a while, looking into her glassy eyes. Her eyes were so pretty, a complex shade of brown and green intermingled together. He could still save her. He could put her skull back together; he had done it before. He could set her broken ribs, legs, and arms, perform CPR. _HE COULD FIX THIS GIRL._ He had seen much worse, limbs cut off, people screaming for death to take their souls. He had seen leprosy and smallpox and some variant of the Black Plague. That was a curious disease, killing its victims in 3 days. Their skin turned violently red and hard as something akin to gypsum. He had never seen anything like it, and his best guess was that it was conjured in a lab of some sort. That was perhaps the worst thing he had seen, and this little girl was an easy patch up.

The girl sat up then, said in his ear, "you can't, John," and fell back, her split skull hitting the concrete with a sickening thump.

John's mouth opened, about to scream, and he retched again. His insides protested the shock and trauma and blood began to spill out of his lips. His hands prodded his body for any wounds and after leaving his side, his hand came back red. His coat, the infamous trench coat, was stained rusty red with his blood. He must've been grazed by a bullet, although he couldn't understand why he didn't notice it. He'd be knocked around quite a bit too, so his organs were probably a bit bruised up. Maybe his lungs. He was suffering from internal bleeding, which would explain the blood in his phlegm and now why he was coughing it up. Brilliant. He removed his tie with calculated movements, going to use it as a tourniquet, or to maybe stop wiping blood all over his hands. Not cleanly. But he looked at the girl and had a small flame of hope in his chest. He carefully lifted her head from the pavement and wrapped the tie around her head. Her skull still pushed into his hands, but the congealed blood all around her worked as fairly effective glue. He stood up, satisfied with his work. The girl would wake up safely, probably slightly disoriented. She'd be okay. John placed a soft kiss to her cheek and walked away.

 _Cows are in the meadow_

 _Eating buttercups_

 _Thunder, lightning_

 _We all stand up._

John was struck by an invisible hand, knocking the air out of his lungs, shoving him to the ground, skinning his hands and knees. He wanted to yell, but it was stuck in his throat, drowning in blood. He laid in fetal position, begging for the cry to come out.

 _Ashes, ashes_

 _We all fall down_

The scream that finally escaped was hoarse and ragged, swamped in his bodily fluids. He screamed for a long time. He didn't know for how long, but it was long enough for his voice to finally collapse and his vision to go black.

John stared at the man who had the gun to his head. He looked him dead in the eye and began to sing,

 _Ring around the rosy_

 _A pocket full of posies_

 _Ashes, ashes_

 _We all fall down._

John pulled the trigger.

And the man fell.

John sat next to the dead man on the floor, blood flowing in a tiny stream from his temple. He could feel nothing but apathetic hatred. (He knew that he was being highly contradictory, but still, it was the only two words that truly described his mental state.) He thought of how many people this man could have killed, how many Roses, Marthas, Donnas, Amys. He didn't feel sick, nor did he feel guilty. In fact, he felt triumphant. He won today. He bloody well won. John Smith victorious. He thought of the Daleks and how this man, who was once a Gallifreyan, volunteered to be on their side. He thought of the little girl, so many years ago, but was still as clear as a Windexed window. Her dead eyes and the blood and tiny bits of brain squeezing out of the back of her head. He thought of how he had cracked her bones back into place, naively thinking that he could save her. He was so much older now, aging a century in only a year. He was only twenty-six and he felt like a thousand. Burdened with the death of all his people, weighed down with the lives he never saved. He thought of how this man was somehow entirely connected to this all and how if he met him two thousand years later, he would still kill him.

He was not a Doctor anymore.

He never would be. Not ever again. Never, ever, not in the next hundred years, not even a thousand.

He was a solider, the perfect warrior. Deadly and unafraid. He was never kind, only numb and robotic.

No kindness to anyone but his own, no mercy to murderers.

If you didn't look closely, you might think that John Smith was a Dalek.

 **here's the second chapter of Astronomical Calculations! it'd mean the world to me if you left a comment! thank you so much for reading :)**


End file.
